“Yes. It is my one great weakness,” said Druss, with a rueful grin.
“How can it be weak? That makes no sense.”
“Don’t ever be fooled by appearances, boy. Strong men build for the future: farms, schools, towns, and cities. They raise sons and daughters, and they work hard, day in day out. See that wood there? The tree it came from is around two hundred years old. It started out as a seed, and had to send roots into the hard earth. It struggled to survive—to live long enough to make its first leaf. Slugs and insects ate away at it, squirrels chewed on its soft bark. But it struggled on, making deep roots and a stronger heart. For two hundred years its falling leaves fed the earth. Its branches became the home of many birds. It gave shade to the land beneath it. Then a couple of men with ax and saw brought it down in less than an hour. Those men are like warriors. The tree is like the farmer. You understand?”
“No,” admitted Rabalyn.
Druss laughed. “Ah, well, one day maybe you will.”
Rising from the bench, he began to work again. Rabalyn helped him for another hour.
Skilgannon arrived, and Druss laid down the ax. He still did not seem tired. Skilgannon laid his swords on the ground and stripped off his shirt, exposing the ferocious panther tattoo on his chest. Taking up the ax he lifted a fresh round to the chopping block and split it expertly. Rabalyn sat back, fascinated by the difference in the way the two men worked. Druss was all power and economy. Skilgannon brought a touch of artistry to the labor. Every so often, as the ax swung up, he would twirl it, causing sunlight to flash from the blade. His movements were smooth and supple. Though less strong than Druss, he powered through the work with great speed. Where Druss would split a round, his ax blade occasionally biting into the chopping block below, and needing to be wrenched clear, Skilgannon would strike each blow with just the right amount of force. The rounds would split, the ax blade coming to rest almost gently on the block.
Both men made the work look easy, and yet when Rabalyn tried it, the swinging ax would bury itself into a round and need to be wrestled clear, or else he would miss with his swing, the blade bouncing from the block and jarring his shoulders. “Keep at it, laddie,” said Druss, encouragingly. “It’ll come.”
By the time Rabalyn had succesfully sliced around thirty rounds, his shoulders and arms were burning with fatigue. Druss called a halt and they moved to the well nearby. Druss drew up a bucket of water and drank.
“We should be ready to leave in a day or two,” he told Skilgannon.
Skilgannon donned his shirt and swung his swords to his back. “A man at the tavern told me that there are horses for sale in the northern quarter of the city. He said I should seek out a man named Borondel.”
Druss thought for a moment. “The northern quarter is mostly Naashanite. Will it be safe for you?”
Skilgannon shrugged. “Nowhere is safe. But we do need horses. Diagoras says the Drenai have none to spare.”
“Did you ask Shivas about this Borondel?”
“Yes. He is a horse trader.”
“But you are not convinced. I see it in your eyes, laddie.”
“No. It seems too . . . convenient that a man should seek me out and ask if I’m looking for mounts.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Skilgannon shook his head. “I’ll scout the area. If it is a trap I will seek to avoid it.”
That it was a trap was not in doubt. Skilgannon knew this even as he left the embassy area compound. So why are you going, he asked himself? The man at the tavern had been Naashanite—even though he had tried to disguise his accent. While talking to the man Skilgannon had noted the edge of a tattoo under the long cuffs of his red shirt. He saw enough to know it was the coiled cobra, sported by archers and spearmen of the Coastal Army.
As he walked he glanced to his left and right. Once he caught a glimpse of someone darting between two buildings. The man was wearing a red shirt.
This is foolishness, he told himself. Why walk into danger?
Why not, came the response? Suddenly Skilgannon smiled and his mood lifted. He saw again Malanek, in his training room back at the compound. “You look in a mirror and you think you see yourself. You do not. You see a body inhabited by many men. There is the happy Skilgannon, and the sorrowful. There is the proud, and the fearful. There is the child who was, and the man who is yet to be. This is an important lesson, because, when in danger, you need to know—and more importantly to control—which of these men is in charge at that time. There are moments when a warrior needs to be reckless, and others—far more others—where he needs to be cautious. There are times for acts of great bravery, and times for tactical withdrawals, to regroup and fight another day. Equally there are times when action is needed so swiftly there is little time for thought, and, worse sometimes, where there is too much time for thought. Understand yourself, Olek. Know how to find the right man within, for the right moment.”
“How do I do that?” the fourteen-year-old had asked.
“Firstly you must remove emotion from the arena. Each action is judged on its merits alone, and not from the heart. An example: A man stands before you and challenges you to fight him with your fists. What do you do?”
“I fight him.”
Malanek slapped him on the top of the head. “Will you think?” he demanded. “I have no sand-timer working here. You have time to consider my questions.”
“Is the man alone?”
“Yes.”
“Is he an enemy?”
“Good question. He might be a friend who is angry with you.”
“Then I would try to reason with him.”
“Excellent,” said Malanek. “But he is not a friend.”
“Is he bigger or stronger than I?”
“He is—for the sake of this discussion—the same as you. Young, strong, and confident.”
“Then I fight him. Reluctantly.”
“Yes, you do, for a man cannot remain a man if he refuses a challenge. He becomes lessened in his own eyes, and the eyes of his comrades. The important word here is reluctantly. You will fight coolly, using your skill to end the fight as swiftly as possible. Yes?”
“Of course.”
“Now picture this: A man—the same man—has just punched Molaire in the face and knocked her to the ground. He is kicking her as she lays unconscious.”
“I would kill him,” said the youth.
“Now this is what I am talking about, Olek. Who is in charge now? Where is the man who fought coolly and reluctantly, seeking to end the fight as swiftly as possible?”
“If I saw Molaire attacked I would react with anger.”
“Exactly—and this would lessen your effectiveness. Block from your mind all emotion. This will bring you to your true self. When you fight let your body relax, and your mind float clear. Then you will be at your best. I have fought many duels, Olek. Most of the men have lacked my skill. Some of them I managed not to slay. I disarmed them, or wounded them sufficently to end the fight. Others were almost as skilled. These I had to kill. But a few, Olek, were better than me. One was so far better I should not have survived for more than a few heartbeats. These men should have won. They did not. And why? One died for arrogance. So sure was he of his skill he fought complacently. Another died through stupidity. I managed to make him angry. The one who was infinitely better than I died because he feared my reputation. He was already trembling when we touched blades. Emotion has no place in combat, Olek. This is why I will teach you the Illusion of Elsewhere. You will learn to float clear.”
As he walked on through the city, Skilgannon began to breathe deeply and easily. No longer irritated, no longer tense, he considered the problem.
The assassins knew where he was staying, and therefore could find him. If he tried to hide from them they would continue to seek him, either in the city or on the open road. Better then to seek them. They would have the advantage of numbers, though they would also be expecting to surprise him. The man in the tav
ern had given directions to the stables owned by Borondel. Therefore the attack would either take place along the route or at the stables. The most likely place would be at the stables, where, once inside, the murder could be committed out of sight.
This was the strongest possibility, though they could have men stationed along the way. A knifeman, perhaps, or a bowman. Both? Probably. If he himself were planning an assassination—especially that of a known swordsman—he would have at least three units on call. The first would be armed with swords or knives, and would attempt to kill the man as he was on the move through a crowded area. The bowmen would be positioned further back along the route, in case the man escaped the first attempt and ran back the way he had come. The third unit would have been following the victim, some distance back, ready to cut off any line of retreat.
Skilgannon could no longer see the man in the red shirt, and guessed that he had sprinted on ahead to warn the attackers of his arrival.
He strolled on. How many would there be? This was more difficult to estimate. Ten seemed the most likely. Two bowmen, four in the first knife, or sword, attack. Another four following. Emerging from a broad avenue he crossed the road and entered a small park. There were scores of people here, sitting on the grass, or standing near the fountains. They were better dressed than those he had seen in the mob yesterday. Up ahead was a family, a man and a woman, walking with three children. Skilgannon scanned the area. The park was mostly open ground, with little screening of bushes or trees. There was nowhere for a bowman to hide. Added to this the men he could see were dressed in warm-weather clothing, tunics, shirts, and leggings. None carried weapons. Some way into the park Skilgannon paused on an ornate wooden bridge spanning a stream. He glanced back the way he had come. Three men were strolling some distance back. All wore heavy jerkins, beneath which knives could be hidden.
Three behind.
If the organizer of this attempt believed three could stop him fleeing it was possible that no more than three more would be waiting ahead.
According to the directions he had been given, the stables of Borondel were beyond the park exit. There was a long alleyway, he had been told, and this led on to an area of open ground.
Leaving the park he crossed another road, then cut to the left, avoiding the alleyway. Walking on swiftly he ducked down a second side street. Out of sight of the men following, he broke into a run. This second street was full of market stalls, though there were few goods displayed on them. Several contained clothing, but the food stalls were bare. Halfway along the street was a tavern, with tables set outside. Around a dozen men were sitting there, nursing jugs of black beer. Skilgannon moved past them and entered the building. The interior was dark, and no customers were inside. A thin man approached him. “There is no food today, sir,” he said. “We have ale and we have wine. The wine is not high quality.”
“A jug of ale then,” said Skilgannon, moving along the room and sitting by an open window. Moving back his chair to hide himself from view, he sat in the shadowed tavern and watched the sunlit marketplace. Within moments he saw the three followers moving past the stalls. They looked tense and angry. One of them approached the group of men sitting outside the tavern.
Skilgannon rose from his chair and moved swiftly back through the tavern, halting just beyond the doorway.
“What’s it worth?” he heard someone ask.
Skilgannon heard the rasping of metal, and guessed a weapon had been drawn. “You get to keep your eyes, you slug!”
“No need for that,” said the man, his voice suddenly fearful. “He just went inside there.”
Shadows flickered across the entrance. Skilgannon’s stiffened fingers slammed into the first man’s belly. He doubled over, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Before the second could react Skilgannon’s fist cracked against his chin, spinning him from his feet. The third man lunged with his knife. Skilgannon grabbed the knife wrist, stepped inside and hammered a head butt to the man’s nose, shattering it. Half blinded, the assassin dropped his knife and staggered back. Skilgannon followed in with a straight left and a right cross. The man hit the floor and did not move.
Scooping up the fallen knife Skilgannon turned back toward the first man, grabbing him by his long, dark hair and dragging him into the tavern. The tavern keeper, Skilgannon’s jug of ale in his hand, stood by anxiously. “Just put it on the table,” said Skilgannon, pleasantly.
“You’re not going to kill him, are you?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Probably.”
“Would you do it outside? Dead bodies tend to upset my customers.”
The man Skilgannon had hauled into the tavern was gasping for breath, his face crimson. Skilgannon hauled him by his hair into a sitting position. “Lean forward and breathe slowly,” said the warrior. “And while you are doing that think on this. I am going to ask some questions. I am going to ask each one once only. If you do not answer instantly I shall cut your throat. Say my name!”
Drawing back the man’s head he laid the blade of the knife on to the assassin’s jugular. “Skilgannon,” said the man, between gasps.
“Excellent. Then you know that what I have told you is no idle threat. So, here is the first question. How many are waiting for me at the stable?”
“Six. Don’t kill me.”
“How many bowmen?”
“Two. I have a wife and children . . .”
“Where are the bowmen hidden?”
“In the alley, I think. But I don’t know. Servaj will have positioned them. We were just told to follow and cut off your retreat. I swear it.”
Skilgannon released the man’s hair—then struck him sharply on the back of the neck. The Naashanite slumped forward, unconscious. Skilgannon sliced away the man’s money pouch and opened it. There were a few silver pieces inside. He tossed the pouch to the tavern keeper. “Something for your trouble,” he said.
“Very kind,” said the man, sourly.
Skilgannon rose and walked to the entrance. One of the other assassins was beginning to move. The man groaned. Skilgannon knelt beside him and hit him in the jaw. The moaning ceased. Checking the third man he saw that he was dead, his neck snapped.
The tavern keeper leaned over the body. “Oh, this is pleasant,” he said. “Another corpse.”
“At least he’s not bleeding,” observed Skilgannon.
“Not exactly a silver lining though, is it?” said the man. “Corpses are not considered good business for an eating establishment.”
“Neither is having no food.”
“You have a point. Does he have money in his pouch?”
“If he does it is yours,” said Skilgannon, rising and walking outside. A small crowd had gathered.
“What went on in there?” asked a round-shouldered, balding man.
Ignoring him Skilgannon walked to the end of the street and stood by the corner, scanning the buildings close by. Locating the stable he strolled toward it. The man in the red shirt was in the loft, watching from a hay gate. As soon as he saw Skilgannon approach he ducked back inside. Skilgannon broke into a run, cutting to the left and vaulting the fence around a small corral. As he landed he heard a thunk from behind him. Glancing back he saw a crossbow bolt jutting from a timber. Surging forward he sprinted across the corral, swerving left and right. Another bolt hit the ground and ricocheted past his leg. Then he was at the stable doors. Drawing the Swords of Night and Day, he dived through the open doorway, and rolled to his feet. Three men rushed forward.
And died.
A fourth remained sitting on a bale of hay. He was a thin man, dark-haired and balding, and he wore no weapon. “Good to see you again, General,” he said, affably.
“I know you. You were an infantryman.”
“Indeed so. I have a medal to prove it. The queen gave it to me herself.”
Skilgannon moved across the stable, eyes scanning the empty stalls. Then he paused with his back to a sturdy column. “To use such fools as these against me is
most insulting.”
“You are not wrong. Speed, they said. It’s never a good idea. But do they ever listen? Do this, do that, do it now. Makes you wonder how they reach such high positions, doesn’t it? I take it you killed the others?”
“The three who were following? No. Only one. The others will be waking up soon.”
“Ah well, not entirely a bad day then.” Servaj levered himself upright. His saber was hanging from a hook on the wall. Strolling over to it, he drew the blade. “Shall we end this, General?”
“As you wish.” Skilgannon sheathed the Sword of Night. “You are remarkably calm for a man about to die. Is this because of some religious belief?”
“You fought Agasarsis with my sword. This sword here. I watched you. You’re not that good. Come on. Let me give you a lesson.”
Skilgannon smiled, took one step away from the column, then spun and dropped to one knee. The crossbowman hidden in the far stall reared up. Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out. The tiny circular blade sliced into the bowman’s throat just as he loosed his bolt. With a gurgling cry he fell back. The bolt flashed past Skilgannon, burying itself in the calf on Servaj, who swore loudly then dropped his saber. “A poor end to a bad day,” he said. Looking up he shouted: “Rikas, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Servaj,” came a muffled voice.
“Forget about your bow and go home.”
“Why? I can still get him.”
“You can still get yourself killed. Just do as I say. Remove the bolt, loose the string, and come down.” Skilgannon stood ready as a crossbowman descended the loft ladder steps. He was a young man, fair haired and slim. He glanced at his wounded leader, then at Skilgannon. “Just leave, Rikas.”
The young man walked past Skilgannon and left by the rear door.
“Why did you do that?” asked Skilgannon.
“Ah well, there are some tasks which are more onerous than others. To be honest I always liked you, General. And now that I’m dying I don’t feel much like completing my mission.”
“Men don’t usually die from a bolt in the lower leg.”
“They do if the bolt is poisoned.” The man’s speech was beginning to slur and he slumped back to the hay bale. “Damn. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so bloody tragic.” His body arched forward. He groaned, then he pitched to the ground. Skilgannon retrieved the circular throwing blade, cleaned it, and tucked it inside his belt. Then he moved back across the stable and knelt beside the assassin. “May your journey end in light,” he told the dying Servaj.
White Wolf Page 28
